Please Don't Call Me Charlotte

By Dolores Smithem Cicholas

Charlotte's mother, Myrtle Bond, lay dying from an overdose of morphine, administered in the hospital where she awaited gallbladder surgery. Her scheduled surgeon, unable to operate after a weekend of heavy drinking, shook uncontrollably. When death came, a grief-stricken Charlotte accepted the mortician's request to comb her mother's hair for burial and select the music for the service. Later, at the graveside, Charlotte felt the full impact of the future facing her: a seventeen-year-old's promise to "take care" of her siblings-Walter, age fifteen; Hubert, age eight; and Alberta, two and a half years of age. Was she able to handle such a responsibility? She had turned seventeen only two days before. Did she have the courage, even the know-how to face a life as a surrogate mother to her brothers and sister? She needed help. To whom could she turn? This is Charlotte's story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641409049

Book preview

Chapter 1

In the year 1884, Lysander Morehouse Smith came to Washington Territory by train from Kansas City, Kansas, with his wife, Charlotte Georgana, and their children.

They settled in Kent, Washington. In 1885, with the help of his two sons—Albert, aged forty, and Ziba, aged thirty-three—he started Kent Lumber Company. The business grew vigorously and provided a livelihood for many Kent families.

In 1897, Jack Smith, no relation, had worked at Grandfather Smith’s sawmill for a number of years. His wife died giving birth to their fifth child. The premature baby weighed two and one-half pounds. Jack Smith put her in a shoebox and rushed her over to Grandma Smith. He knew she had mothered ten children and would know how to take care of this small infant. Grandma Smith heated bricks to keep the baby warm. She stayed up night and day. She didn’t change her clothes or get much sleep. She devoted two weeks to keeping her small charge warm and fed. Six weeks after taking the small infant in, Grandma Smith quietly died from pneumonia. Grandfather Smith adopted the baby girl and named her Estella.

Grandfather Smith’s home, a stately well-built structure on Smith Street, could well accommodate another addition to the family. Grandfather Smith—being a pillar in the community of Kent, Washington—had the distinction of having Smith Street named after him.

Grandfather Smith enjoyed having a baby in the house once more. After fathering ten children, it just didn’t seem right not to have little ones about.

Thick smoke darkened the sky in Kent that fateful day in 1898 when Kent Lumber burned to the ground. Lysander Smith and his two sons watched in disbelief as their mill went up in smoke.

John Barnes, secretary-treasurer of Kent Lumber Company, owned land along the Cedar River. He offered it to Lysander to build a new mill. An equitable agreement between these two men was the start of a new beginning. Sixty-one-year-old Lysander felt willing and eager to meet the challenge. He had a dream to fulfill. He would carve a town out of the wilderness and build another sawmill. Regretfully, he left his twenty-two-year-old daughter, Myrtle, behind to watch over Estella and keep the home running.

Grandfather Smith started on his mammoth undertaking with a few Japanese laborers. In time, their numbers grew. They proved to be marvelous workers, persistent and vigorous in their work. Trees were felled, a clearing made for houses and a well drilled to supply water. Everyone worked from sunup to sundown.

The laborers were housed in large tents, four laborers to a tent. There were five tents at the beginning. Tent city grew as the workload increased. Four outhouses served the laborers. Food and ice came in by horse and buggy. They stored kerosene for their lamps. A town was coming into being.

The roar of the Cedar River, the song of the night birds, and the smell of fresh fallen trees soothed the weary bodies of the laborers at the end of a ten-to-twelve-hour day. The stars twinkling in the clear sky and the hush of the night brought a sense of reverence. Grandfather Smith read his Bible by the light of his kerosene lamp. He knelt by his cot and thanked God for the progress made that day. He prayed for his crews’ health and safety as well as that for Myrtle and Estella. He asked God to bless his family. Then he turned down the wick in his lamp and settled down for another night in God’s wilderness.

The smell of coffee brewing wafted through the early morning air and had everyone waking to a new challenging day. A robust breakfast of eggs, bacon, and hotcakes got the crew off to a good start. Grandfather Smith thought that in order to work well during the day, a man needed energy-providing food. To meet that need, he hired two cooks from a local restaurant in Kent. They knew how to improvise and make hearty, tasty meals. The men had no complaints about the cooking—only praise.

I’ll take our chefs’ cooking any day to my wife’s.

Yeah, they could sure teach our womenfolk a thing or two.

The laborious days yielded fruit. The families could be reunited. The houses stood as testimony of man’s determination and will to succeed. Now work could begin on building housing for the mill workers and Japanese laborers. Before long, the last tent came down.

With the housing completed, all manpower converged on construction of the sawmill. A new and larger sawmill began to emerge. After months of toiling through seemingly endless days, the sawmill came to life.

Grandfather Smith’s dream had become a reality. He had carved out a town, which he named Barneston. He built a large company store that supplied all the needs of the mill workers. It served as a post office and train depot as well. In the cool of the evening, the townspeople hurried down to the company store to watch the daily train come in. They wanted to see who got off and on the dusty coach—that was the big event of the day. Barneston wasn’t without a doctor. A general practitioner from Kent had the pioneer spirit and hung his shingle in this untried town.

Grandfather Smith built a small log cabin church with fourteen pews. The deacons took turns doing the preaching. Sunday mornings, the townspeople put on their Sunday best and walked to church. They all felt a sense of pride, knowing their house of worship belonged to them. After Sunday morning service, the men talked about logging while the womenfolk exchanged recipes and cures for common ailments. Yes, Sunday was a good day for greeting your neighbor.

God created heaven and earth in six days. It took Grandfather Smith two years to create Barneston. He saw everything that He had made, and, behold, it was very good. Grandfather Smith and his men worked six days a week. He told his crew, The Bible says God rested on the seventh day, and so shall we who work here rest on the Sabbath.

With Barneston up and running, Grandfather Smith was eager to return home to his two daughters in Kent. He had made frequent trips to check on them, but now he could go home for good. Albert and Ziba continued to live and work in Barneston while Grandfather Smith managed the family, mill which was less than forty miles from Kent.

Now with their papa home to stay, the family could get back to normalcy. One Sunday afternoon, Myrtle met Loren Bond, her husband to be, at a church social. After a brief courtship, with her papa’s approval, they were married on a fall day in 1900.

Barneston

Sawmill and town that Charlotte’s Grandfather Smith carved out of the wilderness in Washington state in 1898

Chapter 2

On a warm summer’s day in Kent, Washington, August 4, 1901, the tall, slender, twenty-six-year-old Loren Bond slumped in a kitchen chair, his long limbs wrapped around the chair legs. His twenty-five-year-old wife, Myrtle, lay in pain in the next room. Dr. Taylor, the family doctor, tenderly attended this first-time mother to be. After many hours of labor, Charlotte Pearl Bond came into this world in her grandfather’s house. Myrtle and Loren lived there to care for Myrtle’s father, Lysander Morehouse Smith, and his adopted daughter Estella.

Charlotte completely captured the heart of her grandfather.

She is a special addition to the family. I think she will do you proud! Grandfather Smith exclaimed to Myrtle with a twinkle in his eye.

Oh, how your grandma would have loved you, Charlotte. One fine lady your grandma, he said reflectively. He thought back on how his loving wife had died.

He very gently lifted his cherished granddaughter and lowered his body very carefully into one of his white wicker rockers. They thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.

What are you knitting, Myrtle? Grandfather Smith asked quizzically.

A sweater for Charlotte for this winter, replied Myrtle. I got blue yarn because she looks so pretty in blue with her fair skin and blue eyes.

Yes, she does, but Charlotte would be pretty in any color, Grandfather Smith said proudly.

You know, Myrtle, maybe you could do a vaudeville skit with Charlotte when she’s a little older—like Buster Keaton does with his parents. Grandfather Smith chuckled.

She’s a lot cuter than he is, he added thoughtfully.

Would you like that, Charlotte? he asked, tickling her under the chin.

No, you are too much of a little lady for vaudeville.

That settled, they went on with their rocking. The jasmine, with its cluster of lemon yellow flowers among feathery leaves, clung to the veranda, and its sweet fragrance perfumed the air around them.

Myrtle interrupted their rocking to put Charlotte down for her nap. Upon returning to the veranda, Myrtle said, Papa, I’m off to the grocery store and then over to Sears and Roebuck for some sewing supplies. She gathered her list of needed items and checked her money.

I should be home before Charlotte wakens from her nap. You might peek in and make sure she hasn’t kicked off her blanket, Myrtle said with motherly concern. She paused, took a deep breath of the jasmine perfume, then hurried to run her errands. They lived only a short distance from town. She greeted the neighbors along the way. Myrtle walked sprightly—glad to be alive on such a lovely day.

She decided to go to Sears and Roebuck first. Once inside, she headed for the Dress Goods department. She checked the prices—sewing pattern, ten cents; pins, five cents a box; embroidery, eight cents per yard; calico, six cents per yard; gingham, twelve and a half cents per yard. Last week, gingham was ten cents per yard, but she needed it, so she would have to pay today’s price.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Bond, the salesclerk said cheerily. You certainly keep busy sewing. I’ll see you even more often now that you have a daughter to sew for.

Yes. I’ll be coming frequently, Myrtle replied, checking her sewing list. That’s all I need for today.

The salesclerk put the written order into a basket along with the payment. Then up on the trolley, the basket traveled to the cashier in the office on the second floor—clacking to and fro. Down came Myrtle’s receipt and change. Myrtle pocketed her money and thanked the clerk. On her way out, she eyed a Kodak Brownie camera for one dollar—that would have to wait. She did want pictures of Charlotte but would check with Loren before making that expensive purchase. She hurried on her way to her next stop.

Stewart’s Grocery Store was alive with excitement. The headlines on the Daily News Journal dated September 6, 1901, read, President McKinley Shot. If he dies, then Theodore Roosevelt becomes president of these forty-five United States, Myrtle thought to herself.

Poor McKinley. What a tragedy! remarked Caleb, one of Stewart’s regular customers.

I wouldn’t want Teddy for president. He’s only forty-two! one man exclaimed. Hardly old enough for the job.

Well, Teddy started in politics at age twenty-four, so I think he knows ‘the ropes,’ replied a dignified-appearing lady with her arms full of groceries.

Maybe he’ll work for giving us a right to vote, another lady chimed in hopefully.

You wouldn’t know who to vote for, a plump unkempt man added in a gruff voice, all the time puffing on a foul-smelling cigar.

What’s the matter with you people? uttered Mr. Ingram, the town banker. McKinley is still alive, and you have him dead and buried. And you’re talking about Teddy for president, he said angrily.

He’s right, Mr. Stewart said excitedly. Let’s all calm down and pray for President McKinley. Maybe he’ll survive!

But the tension grew. The voices became louder and more excited. Myrtle just wanted to get her groceries and hurry home. She didn’t want to get in the middle of a hot controversy, although she liked the idea of women being able to vote. She took Mr. Stewart up on his suggestion and said a silent prayer for President McKinley. Now she had to concentrate on getting her groceries home and checking on Charlotte.

She needed chicken for her chicken dumpling dinner. Chickens were seven cents a pound. She liked stewed apricots so she got two pounds, twenty cents’ worth. The whole family loved oranges, so she splurged twenty cents and got a dozen. Oh yes, she almost forgot a pound of butter another, eighteen cents.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Bond, Mr. Jackson, the grocery clerk, said in his slow manner of speaking.

Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson. I’m glad someone here is calm and not yelling, Myrtle answered, having to raise her soft voice to be heard. It certainly is terrible that someone shot the president, Myrtle said to Mr. Jackson. I’ll tell Papa and Loren at suppertime. Then I’ll bring up the topic of women being given the right to vote, she added.

Yes, it certainly is too bad about McKinley. Poor man, Mr. Jackson said gently. I know some folks would ‘run me out of town on a rail,’ but I’m all for women voting, Mr. Jackson confided to Myrtle, only loud enough for her to hear.

We will just have to wait and see what happens, Myrtle said, getting a good grip on her bag of groceries and heading for the door.

Myrtle thought of the injustices women faced, not being able to own property in some states or claim their earnings. Most states denied women equal share in guardianship of their children. I hope when Charlotte grows up, women will have the same rights as men, Myrtle thought to herself.

Myrtle hadn’t intended to talk to Grandfather Smith about her feelings until dinnertime, but the closer she got to his house, the more urgent the need became to discuss the shooting.

Myrtle—a very soft-spoken, mild individual—surprised herself when she blurted out, Papa, it isn’t fair! It just isn’t fair! It was all she could say. She hurried off to check on Charlotte.

Grandfather Smith followed close behind. What isn’t fair, Myrtle?

Oh, Papa, President McKinley was shot today. Everyone at Stewart’s Grocery Store was talking about it. Then a man said he wouldn’t want Teddy Roosevelt for president. Myrtle stopped to catch her breath. He said he was too young for the job. Then a very dignified lady said Teddy might fight for our right to vote. Then an obnoxious fat man said we women wouldn’t know who to vote for. Once again, Myrtle stopped to catch her breath. Myrtle’s cheeks now flushed with a rosy glow. The lady looked one hundred times more intelligent than he did, and he can vote. That’s why it just isn’t fair!

Who would want to shoot President McKinley? And why? Grandfather Smith was incredulous. There must be an explanation. Maybe he wasn’t seriously wounded, he said hopefully. He stood staring out the front parlor window.

Papa, I feel badly about the president being shot, and I pray he lives. I didn’t mean to be callous, Myrtle said, putting her arm around Grandfather Smith.

Myrtle, I hear your frustrations. Women have been wronged, he said, moving away from the window. I hope women will be given the right to vote. I hope I see it in my lifetime, he added, heading for the comfort of the parlor sofa.

Oh, I love you, Papa. I wonder how Loren feels about women voting. I know how he feels about eating, so I’d better go and fix dinner. Myrtle started for the kitchen. She felt happy to have Papa in agreement with her.

She thoroughly washed and dissected the plump hen she’d just purchased. Papa, where’s Estella?

She’s spending the afternoon at Violet’s house. Mrs. Clark is bringing her home at dinnertime, he answered, sounding as though he’d been caught napping.

The chicken—now in the large heavy pot with the tight-fitting lid—was ready to start cooking. The ice man comes tomorrow and not a day too soon, Myrtle thought. I don’t want the butter to get too soft.

They ate most of their meals in the large country kitchen. The dining room with its solid walnut table and eight chairs was used on Sundays and special occasions like birthdays and family get-togethers. Two large tapestries decorated the walls. The floor was covered by a thick lustrous blue oriental rug. Grandfather Smith excelled in interior decorating. He had done well in the logging business, so he could afford the luxuries life had to offer.

Myrtle busied herself in the kitchen, setting the table for dinner. She went to the porch off the kitchen to get some more wood for the stove. With Grandfather Smith owning and operating a sawmill, they had all the wood they needed.

Myrtle could see Mrs. Clark and Estella approaching the gate. She lifted up the kitchen window and motioned for them to come around back as Papa was napping in the front parlor.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Clark, Myrtle said, wiping the perspiration from her brow. Thank you for bringing Estella home, she said, looking away from the hot stove.

I was happy to walk her over, Mrs. Bond, Mrs. Clark said, letting go of Estella’s hand. I’ve got to get home and start my dinner. She seemed to be in a great hurry. Mr. Clark doesn’t like to come home and not have dinner on the table, she said as she hurried out the door.

Did you and Violet have fun this afternoon? Myrtle asked while washing Estella’s hands for dinner.

Yes! We played house, and I got to be the mama. Next time, Violet will be the mama. Where is Papa? I want to tell him I was a mama, Estella said with a child’s exuberance.

You can tell him at dinner. He’s taking a nice nap like you do in the afternoon, Myrtle said, steering her away from the front parlor.

Loren would be home any minute from his job at Grandfather Smith’s sawmill. Like Mr. Clark, he wanted dinner ready to be served as he came through the kitchen door. If the smell of food didn’t waft by his nostrils as he neared the back porch, his displeasure was evident.

Loren, Loren, I was a mama today, Estella said excitedly as Loren walked through the kitchen door.

A mama? My, my. He laid his lunch box on the counter.

Estella, you can tell Papa to get ready for dinner.

How was your day, Loren? Myrtle asked on her way to the icebox for the butter.

About like yesterday and the day before, he answered in a disgruntled tone.

Dinner, everyone, summoned Myrtle.

The family sat down to a well-prepared nourishing meal and bowed their heads as Grandfather Smith gave the customary grace. The serving bowls made their way around the table. Grandfather Smith praised the fluffy, light-as-a-feather dumplings. The evening meal was well underway. All Myrtle could think about was asking Loren the burning question when she served the stewed apricots. Grandfather Smith asked Loren if he’d heard about President McKinley being shot.

Loren said he hadn’t but he didn’t seem too alarmed.

Don’t you feel any sorrow for this poor man? asked Grandfather Smith, raising his usually soft voice.

I don’t like people being shot. But I don’t get emotionally involved, Loren said coldly.

Myrtle didn’t know if she should ask her question after that exchange of words. She thought to herself, If I don’t ask it now though, I probably never will. She summoned the courage to confront Loren. Loren, I heard about the shooting in Stewart’s Grocery Store. If poor President McKinley dies, then Teddy Roosevelt will take over. Some women said Teddy might work to give women the right to vote. Myrtle could feel her cheeks flushing. Don’t you think women should be able to vote? Myrtle, relieved to have asked the question, didn’t have to wait long for her answer.

Women voting! I don’t think we’ve come to that! Women voting! Myrtle, a woman’s place is in the home. Her thoughts should be on domestic matters, not politics, he said firmly, pushing his chair away from the table. Women voting! What is this world coming to? he said, shaking his head. He left abruptly for the solitude of the front parlor.

Myrtle was sorry, but not surprised, to learn her husband didn’t have the gentle, compassionate nature her father had. I wish Loren thought like Papa, she sighed.

On September 14, 1901, the headlines carried the sad news of President McKinley’s death. On that day, Theodore Roosevelt took the oath of office. The business of America was peace and prosperity. Teddy vowed to keep the nation strong and prosperous.

Chapter 3

Grandfather Smith invited Ms. Taylor, a church committee woman, over to three o’clock tea on the veranda. Myrtle wasn’t too surprised when Grandfather Smith asked her if she would prepare a tea party. He had begun staying after church services to talk to Ms. Taylor about committee work. Ms. Taylor, a widow, and her teenage daughter, Mabel, worked diligently in church activities. Myrtle had the feeling that Grandfather Smith’s interests went beyond church affairs. She felt, and rightfully so, that romance filled the air.

Myrtle got down the pretty hand-painted tea cups. She folded the french damask linen napkins artistically. She spread a beautiful linen lunch cloth in a blue morning glory pattern on the white Victorian cast iron table. She arranged a bouquet of lilacs, roses, and dogwood. Tea accompaniments—sugar, cream, and sliced lemon—waited on a serving tray. Tea cakes would come out of the oven at two-thirty.

At three o’clock sharp, Ms. Taylor placed a gloved hand on the gate latch and opened it gracefully and waltzed up the walk to the veranda. Her hour-glass figure was no doubt achieved by a steel Warner Brothers corset, which could squeeze the waist to eighteen inches, leaving little room for tea or tea cakes.

Hats were the crowning glory of every ladies’ outfit, even though the Audubon Society protested in vain the sacrificing of birds for their plumage. Feathers from a variety of birds decorated Ms. Taylor’s hat, which sat atop her auburn hair.

Grandfather Smith, dressed in his Sunday best, greeted Ms. Taylor cordially. You look lovely, Ms. Taylor, Grandfather Smith said, taking her arm as he escorted her to the table. The tea cakes and a pot of steaming tea awaited them.

Everything is as pretty as a picture, Ms. Taylor said, removing the glove from her right hand. I feel flattered that you went to all this trouble, she added, smiling.

No trouble. Myrtle is a blessing! She did it all with no help from me, Grandfather Smith said, beaming radiantly.

Papa and I am glad you could come. Please excuse me though because it’s time for Charlotte’s bath. I’ll check later and see if you want more tea or cakes.

Ms. Taylor and Grandfather Smith exchanged pleasantries and small talk. Being shy around women, he found it difficult, if not painful, to carry on with the conversation. He breathed a big sigh of relief when Myrtle came out to the veranda.

Would either of you like more tea? Myrtle asked, trying hard not to step on Ms. Taylor’s full skirt.

None for me. Thank you, Ms. Taylor replied politely.

Papa?

No, Myrtle, I’ve had plenty, Grandfather Smith said. But I would like you to play a couple of pieces for Ms. Taylor, he said, thinking he wouldn’t have to talk while she played.

Myrtle, sensing his uneasiness, willingly complied. Grandfather Smith took Ms. Taylor’s arm and escorted her into the front parlor. She sat down very ladylike on the french provincial sofa. Grandfather Smith sank down in his favorite overstuffed chair. Myrtle adjusted her long skirt to reach the piano pedals. Beautifully and effortlessly, Myrtle played Ave Maria by Bach and None But the Lonely Heart by Tchaikovsky.

You certainly play well, Mrs. Bond! Ms. Taylor said enthusiastically.

Thank you. I don’t have time to practice now that I’m a mother, but I try to play a little each evening.

Well, I want to thank you both for a lovely afternoon. Now I must be on my way. I’ll see you in church Sunday, Ms. Taylor said, putting on her glove.

Grandfather Smith walked her to the gate and hesitated. May I have the pleasure of seeing you home?

Thank you, but I’m to meet Mabel at Kramer’s Music Store. I’ll look forward to seeing you Sunday, she said coyly.

Once inside the house, Grandfather Smith said to Myrtle, I think she is someone worth cultivating. What do you say, Myrtle?

Yes, Papa, she warrants getting better acquainted with. Myrtle smiled with a sort of conspiratorial twinkle in her eye.

Sunday evening after church services, Grandfather Smith invited Ms. Taylor and her eighteen-year-old-daughter Mabel to Mr. Trumble’s ice cream parlor. They walked three abreast past Stewart’s Grocery Store, past Dr. Burton’s dentist office, and past the town park. The evening breeze carried the scent of gardenias and lilacs. Mr. Trumble’s ice cream parlor was always a busy place. Its popularity was due to the fact that Mr. Trumble made his own ice cream and gave generous portions.

Grandfather Smith, Ms. Taylor, and Mabel seated themselves at one of the round white iron tables with matching white chairs. Mr. Trumble, wearing his customary large white bib apron, took their orders. Two ice cream sodas, ten cents each, and one root beer float, five cents.

Thank you for the nice treat, Mr. Smith, Ms. Taylor said as she carefully spooned out the last morsel of ice cream from the tall slender glass.

Thank you for including me, Mr. Smith, Mabel added, making sure she’d gotten every last drop of the delectable beverage.

I’m glad you both enjoyed your sodas. We’ll come again next Sunday if you’d care to, Grandfather Smith added shyly.

We’d be happy to, they both said in unison.

Grandfather Smith walked them to their door, and they said their good nights. Feeling like a young colt, he pranced home. He flung open the gate with abandon and skipped up the steps. Once on the veranda, he said emphatically, Yes, Ms. Taylor is definitely ‘worth cultivating’! He clicked his heels and leaped to the front door. He felt euphoric. He sashayed into the front parlor where Myrtle sat playing the piano while Loren, in his reverie, wrote poetry.

Good evening, one and all. I had a wonderful evening! Yes, a truly wonderful evening. I’m retiring for the night. Sleep well you two. I know I shall, he spoke in a dreamy manner. He seemed eager to get to bed and relive his precious evening.

Good night, Papa. I’m happy for you. See you in the morning, Myrtle said, kissing his cheek.

Good night, Papa Smith, Loren said. He didn’t feel comfortable calling him just Papa.

Papa certainly is smitten, Myrtle said, bringing the cover down over the piano keys.

Yes, he seems to be, agreed Loren, pushing his chair away from the desk—leaving his poetry to be finished another evening.

Grandfather Smith stirred about early the next morning. He went downstairs and headed for the back porch. From a large wooden box on the floor, he picked out his gardening clippers. He put some water in the old wooden bucket. His hands slipped into his worn comfortable gardening gloves. The lilacs and roses were in their prime. Clip, clip, clip! The clippers, just sharpened, made quick work of cutting through the stems. Once he had a large bouquet, into the wooden bucket it went. He carried his flowers proudly to the back porch. There he removed excess leaves. He then stood back and admired God’s handiwork.

Good morning, Papa, Myrtle said, sounding as though she had just wakened.

Good morning, Myrtle. It’s a lovely day. I thought I’d take a bouquet over to Ms. Taylor after breakfast. I’m going to ask her to dine with me tomorrow night. I’ll take her to the Veranda. They are known for their elegance. I hope she will accept my invitation, Grandfather Smith said with an air of uncertainty.

Oh, Papa, I’m sure she will. She would be proud to be seen with you. She is a lucky lady to have your attention, Myrtle said affectionately.

Estella can walk over with me. I think they should get acquainted, Grandfather Smith said, smiling at the thought of the two of them together.

Myrtle prepared breakfast and packed Loren’s lunch. Charlotte lay in her crib in the kitchen. Loren showered and shaved and got ready for another day at the mill. He carefully picked up the violin he’d carved so expertly; he wasn’t satisfied with the fingerboard—he’d perfect it after the evening meal.

Is everybody ready for breakfast? Estella, come over here and I’ll help you wash your hands, Myrtle said, glancing over to see if Charlotte was all right.

Papa and I are going for a walk, Estella said gleefully.

Yes, that’s nice! Run in and tell Loren breakfast is ready, Myrtle said, turning the bacon and moving the coffeepot to the back of the stove.

Everyone found his place at the table, and Grandfather Smith said grace. Breakfast began with a morning greeting and then the minimum of talk. Talking was reserved for the evening meal. Breakfast was nourishment to get the body ready to meet the demands of the day. Myrtle remembered her mother’s teaching: breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

His meal finished, Loren excused himself. He didn’t want Mr. Montgomery, who picked him up in his Ford, to have to wait for him. Sure enough, the toot of his horn sounded. Loren grabbed his lunch box and was out the back porch in a matter of seconds. Then Grandfather Smith helped Myrtle clear the table. Another day had begun.

Charlotte, before long, you’ll be joining us at the table! Yes, you will, Grandfather Smith said, gleaming at this bundle of joy. My, what a strong grip you have, young lady. Look at those pretty little fingers. You’ll have to let go of Grandpa’s thumb. Grandpa has some very important business to attend to. You be a good little girl. We’ll rock and talk this afternoon.

Myrtle, Charlotte gets prettier every day, Grandfather Smith said, unable to hide his pride.

Yes, she does. She’s the sunshine of my life, Papa, Myrtle answered with her hands dripping water from the dishpan.

Grandfather Smith left the kitchen. He went to the bathroom to shave and put on his special aftershave lotion. He looked himself over in the full-length mirror in the hall. I guess I’ll meet with Ms. Taylor’s approval, he said, straightening his tie.

Is Estella ready? We shouldn’t be gone too long, Myrtle. With one hand holding his flowers and the other Estella, Grandfather Smith and Estella walked down the front walk. Watching Grandfather Smith and four-year-old Estella walking hand in hand was a pleasing sight to behold.

Papa, are we going to play house where we’re going? I want to be the mama. You can be the papa, Estella said excitedly. She gave her father’s hand a squeeze.

No, we are calling on Ms. Taylor. I’m going to give her this pretty bouquet. Ms. Taylor is a mama. I want her to get to know you. Hopefully, she will be coming over to our house often. Would you like that?

Would she play house with me, Papa? Estella asked, skipping up the walkway to Ms. Taylor’s front door. Would she, Papa? Estella persisted.

We will have to ask Ms. Taylor, Grandfather Smith answered with a grin.

Grandfather Smith knocked on the front door. His heart beat wildly. His breath seemed to vanish. What seemed like a wonderful idea—walking over and bringing flowers—now seemed impertinent. His knees grew weak, and so did his vigor. He felt ready to turn and take flight when the door opened.

Why, Mr. Smith, what a pleasant surprise! Ms. Taylor said in wonderment. Her light auburn hair, usually piled high on her head, now cascaded down her shoulders in soft curls. Won’t you please come in? she asked. It looks like it is going to be a sunny day.

Grandfather Smith finally caught his breath. He bashfully said, These are for you. He handed her the pretty bouquet. This is my daughter, Estella. He suddenly felt awkward. Like a schoolboy on his first date.

Thank you so much for the lovely flowers and for bringing Estella over, Ms. Taylor said, patting Estella on the head. Would you like a nice oatmeal cookie, Estella? And how about you, Mr. Smith? I baked them myself, she added proudly.

Just one. We just barely got through with breakfast, Grandfather Smith said, reaching into the fat round cookie jar. Estella, what do you say when someone gives you something?

Thank you, Estella answered, lowering her head. Now can we play house? Papa said I could ask you. I want to be the mama.

Someday we’ll play house, Estella. And you can be the mama, Ms. Taylor said, taking Estella’s small hands in hers. That’s a promise, she added.

Ms. Taylor, I would like your company for dinner tomorrow evening. I thought we could go to the Veranda say … at six o’clock. Grandfather Smith waited for her reply.

The Veranda! You pay for the atmosphere there. It sounds delightful! I shall look forward to dining there with you, Mr. Smith.

Well, Estella and I must be going. I told Myrtle we wouldn’t be gone long. Thank you for your hospitality. I’ll see you tomorrow at six. He felt light as air. Like he could walk home without his feet touching the ground.

I’m glad to have met you, Estella. We will play house one day soon, Ms. Taylor reassured her.

Bye, Estella said, waving her small hand She’s a nice lady, Papa, Estella said, firmly holding on to her papa’s hand.

Yes, she is, Estella. Yes, she is, he replied in a trancelike state. Ms. Taylor’s beautiful auburn hair cascading down her back in soft curls weakened him. Grandfather Smith was brought back down to earth by Estella saying, Papa, let’s see who can get to the front gate first. He didn’t realize he’d walked all the way home. Myrtle greeted them at the door, holding Charlotte in her arms.

Chapter 4

Grandfather Smith walked into the front parlor with Myrtle close behind.

Ziba stopped by. He needs to talk to you about something that happened at the mill this morning. He’ll come over at lunchtime.

Ziba parked his Ford by the gate and jumped out. He left the gate open in his haste and hurried to the back porch. Grandfather Smith saw him coming and opened the door expectantly.

What is it, Ziba? What happened? Grandfather Smith asked anxiously. They walked hurriedly into the sunny kitchen.

Jake Snyder lost two fingers! He stood operating number two chainsaw when suddenly he let out a bloodcurdling cry. He writhed in pain and held his bloody hand, Ziba said with a shudder. Albert put a handkerchief over the cut and applied pressure to stop the bleeding. Poor Jake turned as white as a ghost. I ran and got my car. Albert and Mr. Montgomery helped him into the front seat. He’s over at the hospital now as scared as a young man can be.

Myrtle packed a lunch for them as they talked. They grabbed it and made a dash to Ziba’s Ford. Ziba cranked the engine, which started on the second try.

Does anyone know what happened? Was the chainsaw malfunctioning? You can take me to the mill after we see Jake, Grandfather Smith said, holding on to their midday meal.

They drove along the bumpy road leading to the Kent Hospital. On the grounds, employees sat on the thick lush green grass eating their lunch. Once parked, they rushed into the hospital. They hurried to the information desk to inquire which room Jake Snyder was in. In room 22, Jake lay in a steel bed next to a large window.

Hello there, son, Grandfather Smith said, placing his hand on Jake’s shoulder sympathetically. Are you in a lot of pain? he asked, scrutinizing this young man of nineteen.

Yes, sir. The pain is pretty bad! Jake managed to say. I hope I don’t lose my job, sir.

We’ll have to wait and see if you can operate the chainsaw after this accident. Don’t worry, son, there are other jobs to be done, Grandfather Smith said, patting his shoulder. The most important thing now is to get you healed.

Thank you, sir, Jake replied, looking even younger than his years.

When you’re stronger, we’ll talk about the accident. Grandfather Smith was anxious to know what happened, but this wasn’t the appropriate time to ask. I’ll come see you tomorrow and see how you are doing.

Goodbye, sir, Jake replied. He turned his head to gaze out the window.

Ziba and Grandfather Smith ate their lunch on the grounds surrounding the hospital. With lunch finished, Ziba cranked the engine. They drove to Barneston in the warmth of the afternoon sun. The scent of fresh logs approaching the sawmill was a prelude to what lay just ahead. Walking inside the mill, their nostrils were treated to the fragrance of freshly felled trees. One just had to close his eyes to imagine himself in the midst of a forest. Mr. Montgomery’s nephew took over on the number two chainsaw. Grandfather Smith inspected it and the area surrounding it. The saw worked perfectly. He toured the mill and talked to some of the workers. All reports indicated Jake Snyder was a dependable, conscientious worker. Grandfather Smith decided human error caused the accident; Ziba and Albert agreed. Satisfied with their findings, Ziba drove his father home.

I’ll talk to the boy in the morning, Grandfather Smith said to Ziba. He stepped up on the running board. I’ll drive myself over after breakfast. Jake must have looked away from the saw for a second. I’ll find out why in the morning. I’ll let you know.

I’ll be eager to hear from you, Father.

Myrtle sat rocking Charlotte on the veranda as Grandfather Smith walked up the steps.

Are you all right, Papa? Myrtle inquired, shielding Charlotte’s eyes from the bright afternoon sun.

Yes, Jake Snyder is resting in the hospital. Poor boy! I checked the saw and talked to some of the workers. I think human error caused him to lose his fingers. I’m going to talk to him in the morning after breakfast.

Grandfather Smith spoke with deep emotion. Feeling the need for a rest, he seated himself next to Myrtle as she rocked Charlotte. He smiled down at his cherished